


The Guilt Will Drown You

by Darrasu



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Chris at Josh's funeral, Death, Funerals, Gen, Hurt, Overwhelming guilt, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darrasu/pseuds/Darrasu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh's body had never been recovered, but everyone knew what that meant. A funeral is held, and an empty casket is to be buried in his memory. Chris has lost his best friend, and there is nobody to blame but himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guilt Will Drown You

                This was all too familiar. The black clothing, the flowers, the people, the crying, the _empty casket_ —he **hated** it. He hated every _god damn_ second of it. They’d been here now just over a year ago, a situation all but the same, empty caskets being lowered into the ground as but a reminder of what should be there. Of **_who_** should be there. Of the bodies lost upon the mountains, taken too young, lost and searching for a way out, desperate to live with death around every corner. Nobody believed them, not after that second night—they sounded like a group of lunatics, raving and ranting about monsters that attacked them, that took their friend down into the mines, that **killed** him. Would he even believe him, if he hadn’t been there? If he hadn’t witnessed it? If he hadn’t been **responsible**.

                He hated it. The stuffy, expensive suit he’d never wear again, the clouds that covered any source of sunlight, leaving nothing but a dark, cold shadow over the cemetery, and most of all, the talking. The way people who barely knew the deceased acted as if they did, acted as if they were best friends, as if they knew every little damn thing about him. They knew **nothing**. They didn’t know how good of a friend he was, about how caring and loving he had been, how he put his own problems behind him before he’d ever go about worrying those close. They didn’t know _anything_ , but Chris did. Chris knew it all.

                There’s a point where he goes up to speak, to speak about his best friend, about how he cherished their time, about how every second with him was some of the greatest wastes of time, about the late nights where they’d stay up, shoving junk food into their gullets and playing videogames until the sun rose. Then about how they met, about how that one, little thing tied them together for life, how it brought two boys unknowing of the other together, close enough for them to call each other friend. Best friends. That’s what they were, that’s what they’d been since that very first day.

                Those are the things he wanted to say, what he wanted to come from strained vocals—but in reality, there’s nothing. He can’t speak. He can’t do anything but stand there, hyper-aware of what’s going on around him, of the eyes that stared, of the voices that whispered, of the bodies that shook with cries and of the questioning tones that he couldn’t answer.

                _Guilty. Guilty, guilty, **guilty**. _

He can’t even move, somebody else has to guide him back to the crowd, he isn’t sure who it is—it could have been Ashley or it could have been Mike, perhaps it was even Sam, but whoever it was lingers by him after that point, a comforting hand to the shoulder, fingers squeezing into the bone.

                Everything just sounds like white noise now, gaze set nowhere else besides the empty wooden box that is lowered into the ground. He knows it’s empty, that there isn’t an actual body in it—but it still stings. It still gives him that sick feeling, that knowing that he’ll never see the other again, that he’s lost—that not only his life, but his body was lost. Lost in those mines, kept by those creatures to be **devoured** , to serve no purpose other than to be a meal. He wants to **scream** , to fight against the hand on his shoulder, to get away from the sea of black and out of the land filled with nothing but corpses.

                But he doesn’t. Chris doesn’t move a muscle, all he can do is stand and stare, unaware of his own mind and too aware of those around him. The endless tears that roll off reddened cheeks is unknown to him, the trembling in his frame going ignored, the convulsive swallows to keep him from crying outwardly all that he can do to keep himself there. To stay grounded at that spot, to not make some kind of scene, to not leave his best friends funeral. He just wanted to go _home_ , to be anywhere but there, to be alone where others wouldn’t ever see him, where they wouldn’t ever realize how guilty he was, how because of him, Josh was **gone**.

                Left out in the cold, defenseless, tied to a post with no way to leave—no way to go up against those _monsters_. No way to survive. Alone. **Alone**. **_Alone_**. He was left alone.

                He should have never left, Chris should have been the one to stand out there with him, to wait until morning, to understand, to realize what was happening. But instead, he was blinded—blinded by his own hurt and rage, by what his friend had done, by the _pain_ he’d caused them all that night. Why hadn’t he realized it before? He should have seen the warning signs, he shouldn’t have let Josh push away as he had, and he should have been there for him. That’s what friends did—they stood by each other no matter what, they knew when the other was hurt, when they were sad, when they needed comfort. So, why didn’t he? Why hadn’t he been there? Why didn’t he try harder?

                 The crowd was beginning to thin, the quieting of voices and the sound of shuffling feet signaled that. Quiet goodbyes were exchanged, condolences to the family given, and within moments, people were leaving. Some still lingered—not all left right away, a few whispered to the fresh grave, left flowers, trinkets, items that reminded them of the lost. These were the ones true and dear to Josh’s heart, not the phonies who came on obligation, no, they left as soon as they could, they didn’t matter. No one wanted them there. _He_ didn’t want them there. Josh deserved nothing but his closest friends, nothing but true, genuine love, that’s how Chris saw it.

                 But no one could stay forever, and even family had begun to take their leave, giving their final goodbyes before departing from the premises.

                 The hand on his shoulder had long since vanished and Chris hadn’t remembered if he’d said farewell, if he’d even acknowledged the fact that whoever it was, had left. Had he even noticed that everyone had left? That he was the last to be standing there? He had. But it hadn’t mattered. He wanted to be alone, and now, he was.

                 A fresh grave and a newly carved headstone. An empty casket buried beneath soft dirt. A photograph of Josh and his sisters resting against the hard marble, surrounded by colorful roses and trinkets alike. That’s all that was left. This was all that was left, this was what was there to be remembered by. To be gazed upon and to learn, to learn about the boy who died too young, who lost his sisters only a year before, who devoted his life to those around him, who struggled with his own mind and yet, put those he cared of before himself. How was he repaid? With **death**. With _loss_. With the breaking of ties. With loneliness. 

                The rapid pounding of his heart is the first thing Chris begins to notice, and then, the tears, and finally, the shaking. He can’t stop, he can’t will the emotions away no matter how hard he tries. The breath he draws breaks, hitches in his throat, causes lips to quiver and body to shrink back as a sob wracks through, forcing itself out of raw vocals. Knees quake before he feels as if they’re giving out, deciding there wasn’t a reason to fight against it, letting them meet the soft soil with a thud, arms going limp at his sides.

                Chris wants to scream, to yell, and to beg for forgiveness to whoever could listen— but still, there’s nothing. It’s as if he doesn’t have a voice anymore, that someone had ripped his vocals out and buried them along with Josh’s memory. There’s nothing he can do but cry, the waterfall of tears seeming endless as they drip from a pale chin, soaking into the Earth to be forgotten.

                **Guilt**. It feels like he’s being eaten alive, that he’s being gnawed on by the sharp, excruciating fangs of guilt, wanting nothing more than to pull him down into a downward spiral. The longer he’s knelt there the worse the feeling becomes, but he can’t leave—he doesn’t feel as if he can even stand let alone make his way home. He can’t just leave Josh alone, not _again_ —he’d already done it once, and look what happened. He’d **lost** him.

                Lips part to take in another breath, the cold air stinging his parched throat, quivering shoulders seeming to calm if only a bit. He’d barely spoke since that night, he hadn’t brought himself to even do it during the service, there weren’t any words he had for others to hear— for anyone else but Josh to understand.

                “I’m—I’m so **_sorry_**.”


End file.
